When I'm Gone
by thirteenthxdoctorx
Summary: Sherlock comes back after three years, and as happy as he is to see John, there's something else he needs to do. He needs to learn how to reintegrate himself into the human world. John has to learn how to cope with this new version of Sherlock. Eventual Johnlock ensues. non-cannon series three.
1. Chapter 1

When I'm Gone

Chapter 1

John spent days in the flat at first, mostly in Sherlock's room. Everything was too pristine, too untouched, yet there were stories buzzing about in John's head, several at a time, about every sight, every feel, every scent that was still salvageable in this room. He managed to keep the memories alive, even when he himself was dead inside.

No one ever told John that his best friend, his best friend of a little more than a year, would die. No one ever told John that, although he was an unattached man, would come to love and need his flatmate, his detective, his Sherlock. No one ever told him what pain it would cause him to even walk to the flat, back from the plain and simple grave he went to visit every day.

For the first few days, he could muster no more than mere shock at the events that took place. After that, however; he became less of a man, and more of a whisper. He had no hope left. All that died after he saw his best friend for the last time, when he saw Sherlock jump. Every night the same conversation echoed in his head over and over until he fell asleep.

"...It's just a trick. It's all a magic trick."

"Sherlock..."

"This is my note, John."

"What? How do you mean?"

"That's what people do, don't they? They leave a note"

"Sherlock, don't."

"Goodbye, John."

He would wake up screaming Sherlock's name, sweat dripping down his face, tears flowing out of his eyes. He would go to Sherlock's room, sit on the bed, and stay there until morning arrived. He would then go to work at the clinic he found and repeat his schedule. He checked his phone every so often with a gleam of hope and want for maybe, just maybe, a text might pop up from a familiar number, signed with the two familiar letters at the end. Of course, no such luck ever happened, and John was left to waste away, becoming more and more jaded by every hour. Eventually he had to quit his job there, because of his fatigue, mentally and emotionally.

The flat on Baker street remained lifeless for the next few months, as did John. Mrs. Hudson or maybe Lestrade would come over once in a while to check up on John, but no one could ever compete with what vigor Sherlock had. He made the room shine, as his voice would ring and he would dart around the room in excitement, his movements swift and fluid, sudden but expected, proving over and over his love of deduction. No one could ever bring that back for John, and he hated Sherlock leaving him because of it.

The elder Holmes stopped by every so often, to check up on the flat and, well, mostly John.

"Go away, I will shoot," said a dejected John, as he answered the door. He had thought it would be Lestrade again, probably asking to chat about another case, or an old blog entry as he usually did, and so he always had a gun on the front table, never loaded though.

This time, as he answered the door and found Mycroft standing, two heads taller than he, he picked up the gun and pointed it at him. Mycroft simply pushed himself through the doorway and sat down in the chair. _His _chair. And there they sat for the next few hours. Mycroft got up and left without a comment, and had been back a few more times, a little more of a conversation progressing with each visit.

John had begrudgingly come to enjoy Mycroft's visits, more so because it was at least some tie to Sherlock, and not because it was Mycroft, who could easily help him with anything, well, who _did _help him with everything. He paid the rent for the flat, since it was no question John was not set on getting another job, and although Mycroft had tried several times to make John the working man he was before the Fall, he knew it would be a lost cause.

"John, I would highly recommend that, if you want to pay for the flat and risk no more visits from me, to get a job again. I have resources that you would be more than qualified for."

"No. I told you before, Mycroft. I had a job. It's gone, and it's never coming back."

"I was considering one that actually...paid off."

"Me too."

"If you ever reconsider," said Mycroft as he got up to leave, "Please do call and I will surely arrange for you."

Mycroft had opened the door and nearly stepped out when John rose and asked him a painful question, one he would rather not drudge up the memories for.

"What was he like, Sherlock, when he was younger? What...happened between you two, I mean-ah-what exactly caused this 'feud', yet you still cared?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with, it would only bring more grief. Goodbye, Doctor Watson." and he stepped out, wondering how he would answer John's question without bringing himself to mourn his brother's death, the death of their relationship, that is.

* * *

Sherlock woke up that morning on a train back to London with such fear that he caused alarm to the other passengers. Normally, he would have booked himself a suite, but he was feeling lazy the night before, and did not feel the need to ring up his brother for the money.

He had just been dreaming of the Fall, the day that proved that Sherlock Holmes did indeed have emotion. He felt fear and pain and loneliness, even while on that last phone call with John.

'Well, I suppose it would be called loneliness,' he had thought to himself, as he really did not know what constituted as "togetherness" versus "loneliness".

"Sorry, sir, but is this your phone? You appeared to have dropped it. I only heard it ringing now and-,"

"Yes, that's mine." Sherlock cut the woman off and took the phone, and checked it, only to receive three texts from the Woman (nothing important, mind you, just a "good-morning" and two other needy texts), and a phone call from Mycroft, probably asking him to come back for the sake of John's sanity. Oh Mycroft, how could he not know he could never see John again. Well, at least not up close. But that was why he was going back, to see John, from afar. He knew the temptation would be too great if he was in the same flat area as him, so he got Mycroft to rent him out a flat two streets down from it, so he could be at a distance, but still in a good area.

He got up and went into one of the bathrooms, locked the door, and called Mycroft. After two rings, the voice on the other end picked up.

"Hello, Sherlock. Your train arrives today, and I suppose you need some sort of transport?"

"Yes, that would be good."

"John asked about you yesterday."

He never did put anything lightly, always getting to the main point of the conversation, never skirting around the topic. This particular topic made Sherlock's stomach drop, out of fear or longing to see his friend, his only friend, again, he did not know.

"Oh, yes? And what about? Wanting to know perhaps why he hasn't been terrorized by any of Moriarty's henchmen? Maybe because I took them all down?" he said with such agitation that anyone else would be so eager to know what possessed him to do such a thing.

"No, it was about us. Or rather, what happened between us."

"And what did you tell him?" said a now worried Sherlock.

"Nothing. I told him nothing. I figured, once you got back, that you would tell him."

Sherlock could almost see the smirk on Mycroft's face. Of _course_ he would want Sherlock to tell John of their "falling out". Of course he would want Sherlock to tell John, first hand, why he became so inept at caring.

"_I hate you Mycroft."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because you care."_

Those were the three words that started the everlasting enmity between the brothers, the three words that started the everlasting frost on Sherlock's heart. The ice had thawed when he had met John, but soon after the Fall, he built up the barrier once again, and deleted all unnecessary thoughts that, until quit recently, were all John.

"So...you figure that I'll talk to him again."

"If there is nothing preventing you, like you say there is not, I suggest you talk, yes."

"No."

"He cares, Sherlock. Still. I don't know what possessed him to take such a liking, but he's strikingly loyal. Please do tell him, for his sake and yours."

"I can't, Mycroft, you know that perfectly well."

"If Moriarty's...posse...is out of the way-"

"They are. I assure you."

"Then I see no reason for you not to see him again. You still care for him too, I can hear it in your voice now."

"I don't care. I just want to go back home to London is all."

"And what makes it your home, Sherlock? Ponder that."

There was a click on the phone and a tone, and that was that. Sherlock was left there in the stall to think about John and what pain he may have cause him these past three years.


	2. Chapter 2

When I'm Gone

Chapter 2

The train lurched to a stop at 11:05, Sherlock noted, five minutes past the schedule. Not that it would change his schedule much, what did he have to do besides pick up his luggage and find his new flat?

'And see John, tell him why you left' a voice in the back of his head noted him, a voice sounding like Moriarty.

"Shut up. You're dead." he said to himself.

'And you're supposed to be. I'm a teensy bit disappointed. Jumping off a rooftop but unable to face your...pet.'

"Get. Out." Sherlock grit his teeth and spat at the voice inside his head.

The voice had gotten worse since Mycroft's conversation with him earlier, but he cleared his head and carried himself on to get his cab that Mycroft had sent waiting for him.

The flat number, oddly enough was 442D Chance Ave, which, although it was a common word, upset him more than it should have. It was chance that brought him and John together, through a mutual friend that John just so happened to talk to, and it was chance that 442 was double of 221.

'Maybe Mycroft did this on purpose, you do know how he loves his brother,' said that voice again. Sherlock ignored it and went into the flat, which appeared nice and clean. He had been abstemious of eating and drinking, and felt his hunger set in. What has it been now? Three days since his last full meal? Sherlock put his luggage in his new room, and went out to the store to buy some milk, for the first time.

* * *

"These pesky machines never work" John said to himself as he, once again, called for market assistance on the self-checkout machine. He never could get used to those machines, not since three and a half years ago on the Blind Banker case, when Sherlock was surely able to get the milk, had he not been engrossed in the paper that day.

Even just the thought of his name sent John into a fit, his eyes shining over for a fraction of a second and then his heart sinking when he realized he could never relive those days ever again. He paid for the staples, the usual bread, milk, butter, and now included beer, which he overindulged on, although he knew he shouldn't. He first resorted to alcohol when his sister, Harry, came to visit. She stayed once, for a couple of days, and reeked of alcohol. But he decided, that if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for him, and he drank. And drank. He hadn't committed suicidal attempts, thank God, but only for the fact that Mrs. Hudson was still around, and if he had made an attempt, Mycroft would have him under complete surveillance.

John had improved over three years, occasionally going out for a drink with Greg, maybe once every month. He did sit with Mrs. Hudson, and the conversations would drift from new blogs or cases, back to the original cause of his heartache, Sherlock. He would dote on his every minute detail until Mrs. Hudson would fake an excuse and kick him out. Everyone had a puppy-dog crush, but sometimes it got a bit bad, especially when John was drunk.

His phone started vibrating in his pocket as he got in a cab back to Baker street, and he looked at the number. One he didn't recognise.

"Hello?" He asked.

"John? Oh John! It's Molly! I was um, I was just wondering if maybe you would-erm- maybe like to go out for coffee on a double date? Lovely girl, she is, her name is Mary, Mary Morstan."

"Ah...um...yeah sure, when and where?"

"Great! Tomorrow morning around elevenish, Angelo's?"

"Um sure, yeah, great."

Click. The line went dead and John sat there absentminded.

"What have I just done," he asked himself.

He never meant to say yes, he just didn't want to turn down Molly and whoever this friend was. He felt bad, but he knew that he couldn't do it. He would be leading on this poor girl and not feel a thing for her. He couldn't just cancel now though, he would have to deal with it. Let her down easy, as they say.

All those times when he told people he and Sherlock weren't a couple, he wish they had been right. But he knew Sherlock would never feel that way about him, about anyone, really. The closest was with the Woman, and John had envied her every move with him, and more so his responses towards her. No. He would go tomorrow and enjoy being in the company of other companions of Sherlock. He would go and he would meet this Mary. He would go and have fun, without Sherlock, without crimes, for the first time in three years.


	3. Chapter 3

When I'm Gone

Chapter 3

He and Sherlock were holding hands, running down a street, listening to Sherlock deduce yet another crime. He had been so grateful to know Sherlock had never really been dead, it was just a hoax, a threat that Moriarty made. He didn't realize Sherlock had cared about him in such a way, but was happy and extremely delighted to take their relationship to public as they ran, rushing down the alleyways.

John woke up with a start, at two in the morning, and sat up with a jolt. He looked around the dark room, and realised he was dreaming. His eyes filled up with tears, and he got up to go to the bathroom and wash his face.

"Well, looks like I'm not going to sleep now, might as well make some tea. Maybe that will calm me down."

He went and sat down in the living room in his chair, got out his laptop, and started looking at old blogs, scrolling all the way to the bottom until he found his first one: A STUDY IN PINK. He read it to himself, reminiscing all the fun he had-although he would never admit it to Sherlock-and felt at least a little warmer on the inside.

He supposed it wasn't very healthy to not sleep at this time, what not with there being a date in the morning and such, but he already knew that he would not feel anything for this woman, so why try?

Hours passed, and as seven o'clock struck, he got himself off the chair with a now permanent dent in it, and went to take a shower.

The shower was one of John's best and worst times, because he always thought about things, but sometimes those thoughts led to bad places, as did thinking about Sherlock most of the time led. He was by no means gay, and always denied it, but even though his history with women accounted for the fact, he never denied that he felt more of an attraction to Sherlock than any other person, male or female. There were those times in the shower where, of course, he would get turned on even by the mere thought of his name, but that was more in the beginning. Surely now he could handle himself.

"Well, it's just him, his presence, that I'm attracted to. I'm not gay." He said to himself.

He had no problem with being gay, or well, anyone else, but he just couldn't imagine ever...well, he preferred not to think about it now, not in the shower, that would be awkward, as if he thought someone would see him, see into his mind. John was one of those kind of people who were always paranoid about what people would say.

John stepped out of the shower, wrapped himself in a robe, and went to get dressed for his...date. He was happy to get out, go to Angelo's for a nice coffee, especially free, since he was a friend of Sherlock's, but he was not excited to see this girl. He didn't mind Molly, but the fact she was dragging him into it just so her friend wouldn't be alone was bad. Or, maybe they had gotten close enough that Molly just genuinely wanted to spend time with him, as a friend, obviously. Or...

"No, no, she's not that clever. She would never try to take _me_ on a date." he negated himself.

He walked out of the flat around ten, and strolled to the restaurant he was meeting Molly at. John loved getting to things early, it made him feel good that he didn't have to be accountable for anyone else's lateness.

"Hello, John!" he heard Molly call out from behind him, a little more than three meters away.

He saw her, arm in arm with another man, who he assumed to be her boyfriend, and another girl standing a little away from them, most likely Mary.

Mary was a pretty girl, gold locks, fair-skinned, and in the October weather, her cheeks bloomed roses. Her eyes, he saw as she got closer, were the same kind that Sherlock's had been, eyes that he couldn't even describe the colour of.

"Hello, John. Nice to meet you, I've heard about you. Don't worry, all lovely things!" She winked at Molly.

"Nice to meet you as well, Mary. I'm glad Molly invited us here, should be a lovely dat-day. I meant day. Lovely day."

'Shut up, John, it's for the best,' He could almost hear Sherlock in the back of his head chastising his awkward pleasantry.

"Shall we go inside, then? Awfully chilly out here, yeah?"

The quartet made their way inside and they were seated, window view, as Angelo always had the best seat open for John, always.

As they sat and drank their coffee, John glanced out the window and almost choked on his drink, he thought he saw a black trench coat in the street opposite!

'Nah, couldn't have been. It's from that lack of sleep.' he thought to himself.

He was quite engrossed in Mary's story of the time her ex-boyfriend proposed to her on the first date, a man she knew of about two hours, only because he was desperate to wed before his older brother. He found her charm delightful, her attitude cheeky, yet cute, and her personality entertaining. He loved everything about her, except she wasn't Sherlock. No one, not even Mary Morstan could compete with him.

It was about one in the afternoon when the group decided to part ways.

"And, erm, here's my number, for when you want to call and chat a bit," Mary said to John, blush in full bloom.

"Yeah, thanks, I'll ring you up sometime," John said with a gracious smile. He would, of course he would, but he would never truly want commitment with her. Even with Sherlock gone, he couldn't bring himself to replace the old memories with new.

John walked back to the flat, and saw a note addressed to him on the door.

_John, meet me on the corner of Baker street today at six, I will send a cab for your departure. It is of importance._

_-Mycroft_

He was worried now, what if something had happened to Lestrade or- no. Sherlock was never coming back. He had to redirect his thoughts to not think of such. He was gone.

Watson went inside and sat down for a little, read the daily paper, and watched some of the pointless filler shows he knew Sherlock would have a ball correcting, and decided to nap a bit, since he didn't get much sleep last night. His rest lasted a few hours when he got up, grabbed a coat and his shoes, and at six went down to meet the cab at the end of Baker street that Mycroft had sent for him. He got in, and was met by the familiar face of Sherlock's older brother, and a black bag that must have been the matter of importance he mentioned.

"This, John Watson, is Sherlock's old journal. We must discuss it now, it has meaning that you should know about."


	4. Chapter 4

When I'm Gone

Chapter 4

Sherlock, throughout the first day at his new flat, was utterly bored. He couldn't even shoot the wall this time, though Mycroft could have paid for it, and he was oh so tempted to. He saw John go out and buy milk that first day, a sight that brought back a lot of memories, ones that Sherlock thought were deleted. He waited until John got back to go shopping for himself, but when he saw him coming back, he noted one difference. Beer. John was carrying a case of beer.

'Why beer?' Sherlock thought.

'Maybe, oh, I don't know, you, Sherlock. Everyone has their breaking point. Finding his was too easy, and you caused this.'

"Shut up." he said to the voice.

'Oh Sherlock, you don't get it. You're me! You couldn't stop me if you tried.'

"Yes I can, right now." He sighed, plopped onto the couch and fell into a deep sleep immediately.

Sherlock fell into the dream at once, the same dream, a reoccurring one he'd had about John. He ran with him throughout all the city, dodging criminals and gunmen. But then John somehow got ahead of him and ran in front of a bus, and Sherlock had to sprint ahead of him to push him out of harm's way. He fell on top of John and looked at him.

"You could have gotten killed."

"You saved me. I knew you would, Sherlock."

John reached behind and pulled Sherlock's head down, fingers lost in between thick curls, lips barely touching. Sherlock didn't know how to react; part of him wanting to succumb to the emotion, the other part wanting to get up and leave, feeling nothing.

He woke up before he had the chance to decide.

"Air. I need air. I've been trapped up here too long, is all," he said, shaking off the dream.

It was around noon when he woke up, and he decided that after _that_ dream, he needed to get out for his own sake. He got up, wrapped his scarf around his neck, stood for a minute, decided against that, put on his coat, and walked hurriedly out the door, desperately sucking in fresh air.

He walked past Angelo's, and in passing by the window in the front, saw John and blushed. Sherlock put his coat collar up to try to hide his face and dashed around the corner, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn't known that John would affect him like that, making him even more flustered. He saw John catch a glimpse of him and hoped desperately that he wouldn't recognise him and follow him out. He could see that he was on a date with a girl and Molly, and really didn't feel like ruining it for him, although a small part of him became jealous that his attention was on _that girl_ and not Sherlock, where it rightfully belonged. Once he found that John wasn't following him, he resumed his normal stride, and proceeded on normally.

As he walked, Sherlock pondered on the dream, thinking about what he would have done in that situation. Would he have continued the kiss? Or get up and walked away? He decided that, for the sake of experimentation, he would let John have his way, try to be civil about it, and that only for john, he would try to go through the proper emotions for him. Only John could ever have elicited any emotion from him, he thought.

'But that doesn't change anything. I'll never be able to speak to him again.' Sherlock sulked.

'Oh? Sherlock, now's perfect to talk! He's still so _loyal.'_ the voice caressed the last word so gently, Sherlock almost ran back to apologise to John. He kept walking though. Walking where? He wasn't sure until he found himself in front of Mycroft's home.

Sherlock buzzed in, and waited until he was led into the sitting room to let his guard down, for the first time in _years_ to Mycroft.

"I can't." he started.

Mycroft seemed to know what he was talking about, "No one asked you to try so hard, Sherlock. Just let yourself be. Get over it. Move on. And talk to him."

"NO, Mycroft. I can't. I never will. And look, he's forgotten about me, made a new life. As well he should. I left him."

"Do you perhaps feel remorse, Sherlock?"

His head snapped up. Never in his life would he have asked his brother for advice, especially _relationship_ advice, nor would he have expected to hear the word 'remorse' come out of his brother's mouth, especially in reference to Sherlock.

"I think you pity yourself too much."

"I don't feel _pity,_" he spat the last word, resuming his hiding spot behind the sociopathic wall he built. "And even if I did, there isn't a single thing I could do. Good. He's moved on. Perfect. Now I don't have to deal with it."

"Deal with what? The pain of loss?"

"No."

"Don't shut me out, Sherlock. I'm trying to help you. If you reject me, you've lost everything you have."

"I haven't lost anything. There's not a possible thing I've acquired within the past years that I could have lost. There were cases, and there was fame, but those are worldly goods, none of which _matter,_ none of which would_ help _me, none of which are _important _to me. No, Mycroft, I have not lost _anything._"

"John."

"John...," Sherlock's voice came out as a whisper compared to his growl before. "John matters. But I lost him before I left. He doesn't count."

"Doesn't he? Sherlock, he was the only person to care about you. He still does."

"But I saw-"

"You see, but you do not observe." Mycroft smirked, knowing Sherlock has said that many times before; to him, to John, Molly, Lestrade.

"Go to him Sherlock. At least up close. If he doesn't accept you then, then you can say you've lost. I do not get sentimental, but I do care. And I care as much about your sanity as I do his."

"_Sentiment_." Sherlock half whispered, half growled, and left. He hadn't seen Mycroft holding his old tattered notebook in his left hand.


	5. Chapter 5

When I'm Gone

Chapter 5

John and Mycroft sat in the back of the cab, Mycroft holding the notebook like it was the key to everything.

"John, I do not know what's in this. I did not open it. He wrote it years ago, back when I had first entered senior high. You know him better than I ever could, find out what's in here. It may help, if I assume correctly, to explain the feud. I want to help, John. Just give me reason to." he held the notebook far enough from John to make it even more enticing. John did not, however, catch the present tense Mycroft used in reference to Sherlock.

John paused and took a deep breath, then sighed, "I love him, Mycroft. You of all people knew that, from the very beginning. Isn't that reason enough?"

"I suppose so, for you. Take it, John, and figure it out."

John got out of the cab, and went back into the flat, his hands shaking with the notebook in it. He did not see that the cabbie was in fact, Sherlock.

* * *

A few hours earlier, Sherlock had been helping Mycroft with this brilliant plan, unbeknownst to John, of course, and, well, against his will, really.

"Sherlock, before you go, you should help me with something."

"Why would I help you?"

"Help John, at least."

Sherlock spun back on his feet, eyes traveling to Mycroft's extended hand, his notebook in it.

"I want John to know, and if you won't tell him, then I will. Give me your permission, and I won't make you speak to him."

"You have such a way with threats, Mycroft. Clearly you're bluffing."

"Clearly?"

"Your foot, Mycroft. You of all people I expect to have better body language. Your foot is pointing out, only one towards me. The one pointing out of course is pointing to the nearest exit, meaning you're afraid if I say no or take the book from you. You need me here, and you want me to get close to John, for what reason? I don't know. But the fact you extend your arms, ooh power play, very good. You're not the boss of me, Mycroft, although you act like it. You're scared of me. Goodbye."

He starts making his way towards the door when he heard Mycroft speak again.

"This could be the end for John, of your secret. He's grown too curious. If I don't tell him, and you don't, then what could that do to his trust in us, in you?"

"He thinks I'm dead."

"He also would think you lied to him, that maybe Moriarty was right."

"What do you want, Mycroft." it was not a question, but a statement.

"Drive me to the flat and stay there." As soon as he said 'the flat', Sherlock started to protest, "I'll make sure he can't recognise you. Just drive me there and let me give him your old notebook, you know it's meaningless anyway."

"So why give it to him?"

"So he has something of value to him."

They went to the cab, Sherlock disguised and the windows tinted so that way John couldn't see him. He got in, and drove Mycroft to the flat and waited in the cab. He saw Mycroft go into the flat (he had a spare key, no doubt) and leave a note. They drove around for a couple of hours, and headed back to the flat around six. Sherlock's heart raced as he saw John heading out with the note Mycroft had left in his hand. John got in, and didn't even notice Sherlock sitting there.

'Was he really that daft all the time?' Sherlock thought to himself.

'Probably, but that's why you kept him, isn't it?'

'I needed a flatmate, he could stand me.' he thought at the voice.

'But we both know that's not quite true...'

It took everything out of him to sit there and act like a normal cabbie. He snapped out of his thoughts just in time to catch the important part of the conversation.

"...You know him better than I ever could..."

'Really John, Mycroft just basically told you. Mycroft, 'You _know_'? Really? Present tense? Oh John, I thought I taught you better than to ignore verb tense.' Sherlock supposed that that was why he never caught on when he was talking to him on the day of the Fall, he never got that verb tense was important as other clues.

"...Just give me a reason to."

"I love him, Mycroft. You of all people knew that from the very beginning Isn't that reason enough?"

Sherlock heard the words come out from John's mouth and risked a glance in the rear-view mirror at Mycroft and John. John had blushed when he said it, and his eyes were shining over. Oh how Sherlock had ached to hear his voice, one so familiar. He had missed it for the past three years, instead becoming used to the cursing and yelling voices of Moriarty's henchmen. He looked at Mycroft, who was staring at him, and nodded faintly so Mycroft could give John the book.

John exited the car, and Sherlock drove off with Mycroft, not speaking the entire way back. The brothers got out of the car, and Mycroft clearly saw he hit Sherlock's breaking point, as Moriarty had done three years ago.

"Loyal." was all he could get out.

"Yes, Sherlock. Still. If you don't talk to him, I have no doubt he'll read that notebook and come back to me. And no doubt I'll tell him you're back."

"Don't you dare."

"Then go."

Sherlock, for the last time, turned to leave and slammed the door shut behind him. He walked back to his flat, and curled up on the bed, replaying John's words over and over inside his head.

"I love him, Mycroft..."

If only John knew that Sherlock was back. If only he knew what kind of strength it took him to keep away from John. Maybe one day, one day he could talk to John. Or maybe John would gain a family and forget about him. Sherlock, though confident, was not confrontational to those he had any association with, or that he actually cared about. John was part of the latter group. No one could ever compare to John, his loyalty was powerful and apparently contagious, as Sherlock was growing more loyal to him by the minute. Even when they were away from each other, they were for each other all the way. He smiled a bit. He would never have imagined anyone actually caring for him like John did. The Woman was nothing compared to him. She may have fancied him, texted him every so often, but nothing like John, who was able to keep his-Sherlock supposed it was-secret and still help him, still believe him no matter what. Mycroft was right, John knew more about Sherlock than anyone else, even his own brother.

He could no longer deny the presence of feeling for John, no matter how much he tried to repress it, and he was not comfortable with it. He didn't know what he could possibly do, didn't know what to do, really. How was he supposed to handle it?

'I'll think on it tomorrow. Could just be the nerves talking. There is no possible way that I could feel any attraction.'

He thought back to previous conversations he had with John.

"_Have a boyfriend? Which is fine, you know"_

"_I know its fine."_

"_So you have a boyfriend then. Good, great."_

"_No. Not my area."_

"_So you're unattached. Like me. Fine, good. Great..."_

"_John...you should know I consider myself to be married to my work, and although I find your attempts at flirtation flattering-"_

"_No. No, I was not hitting on you. I was just saying...anything is fine."_

Or maybe when Moriarty called him out...

"_He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get rather sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson. Gotcha!"_

Sherlock fell asleep to the memories flying around in his mind, trying to make sense out of everything all at once.


	6. Chapter 6

When I'm Gone

Chapter 6

John woke up the next morning, notebook beside him, and sat up.

"Not a dream, then" he said aloud to himself.

He had thought that it wasn't real, the notebook, and he ran his hand over the worn leather cover just to make sure. He looked at it, the pages yellowed and crumpled a bit. John finally gathered the courage to pick it up and open the cover. He did not look at any of the pages, but rather flipped through it, finding little notes and scribbles and ciphers lying around in it, nothing special. Until he got to the last few pages. He saw his name in it.

_Doctor John Hamish Watson_

_Notes on him:_

_Doesn't take sugar in his coffee._

_Does love the jumpers (One for every day, so it seems)_

_Went to war, still enjoys that feeling of adrenaline._

_Wakes up at seven every morning._

_My friend. My one. My John._

Tears began to well up in John's eyes as he stroked the letters, the penmanship that once was Sherlock's. He set the book down, got up, and went to the bathroom to shower while pondering over the notes that Sherlock had scribbled down.

* * *

Sherlock woke up at seven, the same time John would have woken up, he was sure of. He began to remember last night, what happened, what John said to him. No. Not _to_ him, _about_ him. John would not be able to say anything _to_ Sherlock, that he was...not so positive anymore. Sherlock felt a rush of warmth to his face, he was blushing. For the first time in his life, he could not deny he had emotion. Maybe the fall, yes, he could claim it was just adrenaline. But now? Sherlock Holmes, emotional wreck? Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't care what anyone thought of him, except when it came to emotion. Sherlock had never wanted to feel anything for anyone, which is why he usually worked alone, why he was married to his work. He considered himself asexual. He did not want to partake in any attraction. Now, he was not sexually attracted to John, but he still could not deny the bond between them. He wasn't even sure if he was emotionally attracted. What he did know, he was mentally attracted. He was never bored with him around. He always wanted to do more and more, teach him more, let him learn. He found someone who accepted him, who wasn't just tolerant like Lestrade. He genuinely cared for him.

"Brilliant deduction." he said sarcastically to himself.

Sherlock Holmes was not the man for relationships, nor for friendships. But maybe just this once...

"No. I can't. I can't. John must never see me again."

'Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life?'

'No.'

'I think you do. I think you have become me. You've grown too attached and now you're me. You're me Sherlock. You're me.'

"And now _you're_ in _my_ way." he pushed aside the voice in his head.

He walked over to the bakery around the corner to get a muffin and some coffee for breakfast.

"I'll have a blueberry and a coffee, cream, no sugar."

He recognised the voice instantly as John's own. He backed away from the counter, behind a shelf of take away coffee and stood there awkwardly.

'And so this is how you face him, Sherlock. If I didn't know better, I would say you were perhaps, afraid.'

"Shut up." he growled.

Sherlock came out from behind the shelf and back in line, he thought John had gone. It turns out in fact, he had not gone, but had connected to the wi-fi at a table in the back, facing away from him thank goodness, and had his notebook with him, perhaps dissecting it, every cipher, every word.

'I wonder if he's found the notes yet.' Sherlock thought.

He ordered a plain muffin and black coffee, two sugars, and walked out of the store. John, however; happened to be looking up from his computer screen as Sherlock glanced down at him, and the two pairs of eyes met.

Grey met green met grey. Grey eyes looked back down, and looked back up to find green had vanished. Grey eyes reflected the light as tears ran down the face.

Sherlock ran away. Sherlock. Ran. He ran down the alleyway into another street, cut a corner and went back to his flat. Too much confrontation. Too much too soon. He couldn't. He just couldn't. He found no sexual, physical, and hardly an emotional, but purely mental. And he wanted so much to just say he was back. He came so close to. His heart raced, pounding in his chest. He felt he was about to explode. He gulped down the coffee that burned his throat, and paced the room. He couldn't even think straight. He couldn't think. Period. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was at a loss not only for words, but for thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

When I'm Gone

Chapter 7

John took his coffee to the front of the bakery, set up his laptop, and looked for a connection. He wanted to start looking up cyphers for the notebook.

"I didn't even know he had a notebook, I though Mycroft said it was from his childhood." John exclaimed to himself.

He was so grateful to have found the notebook, of course, but still found himself astonished for being the subject of some of Sherlock's work. If he didn't know better, he would say Sherlock was attracted to him. But he was Sherlock Homes, that was impossible.

"Probably an experiment in mind or something, there's no way he could possibly be _attracted_ to m-"

He looked up and saw someone staring down at him, green piercing eyes, cheekbones jutting out, and the unmistakable charcoal curls. Sherlock. John couldn't believe his eyes and at the same time, his phone beeped with an incoming message. He looked down for a split second and the figure was gone. John was fairly sure that he wasn't hallucinating, but he had had beer the night before and couldn't be sure it wasn't a bit of a hangover, or something.

"No, no. He's gone for good. There's no possible way he could be ba-" He cut himself short and pulled out the notebook from his laptop bag. There was something, something after the notes he had taken that he'd missed. He looked along the pages, the middle of the book and found that one of the pages had been ripped. A second, closer look on the page after that showed the indentations of a message scrawled across the pages. He took a pencil and shaded over the notes. It was, of course, in cypher, and John had no idea how to read it. So he looked up on his laptop and searched for the next hour on how to figure it out, because there was too much he had to be missing.

* * *

"Too close. That was too close. He had the notebook there, he's sure to discover something." Sherlock said aloud to himself. He knew what was in there, the notes he had taken on John, some notes on their cases, and of course childhood deductions and vent sessions he had, all written so Mycroft could never see them. But there was something else, something he had half hoped John would discover, maybe so he didn't have to face John himself, he wasn't so sure.

There was a page, written in code, that he had taken out because he wasn't so sure Moriarty would take the notebook or find out. He had written it before he died, and it said that he wasn't dead, and if he was not back within five years, to get rid of all his possessions, because he swore he would be back. He just knew it.

It was supposed to say and address and a time, but seeing as it had been three years, he wasn't sure what that time or date was, so maybe John would just try to text him, and Sherlock was sure he wouldn't answer, mostly out of fear of rejection.

'So the Great Sherlock Holmes is as ordinary as the rest of them, fearing rejection from his first love.'

"No, I simply do not want him to give up the choices he's made for me."

'Feeling a little humble, now, are we?'

He shut off the voice, he knew it wasn't Moriarty, but his own voice of doubt, the one he never gave in to. He looked in the mirror and saw his eyes were red. Funny, he didn't remember crying, but then again, it must have been insignificant, and so he did not register it. He sat down at the desk he had and looked on his laptop for his website, went down the page and found the cipher he created, for that was how John was supposed to discover the code. If he did not, it could very well mean the end of their friendship, something Sherlock was not ready nor willing to sacrifice.

* * *

John spent at least two hours in the little shop looking for some sort of clue, some sort of translator for the code on the page. He almost gave up when the idea popped into his head to visit the website Sherlock had. He went to the homepage and scrolled down a bit to find the tab that said Ciphers, Codes, and Their Use in Everyday Life. He clicked on it, and saw only one cipher. The message at the bottom said;

_This is for use of only close friends or relatives, you start with a key word, and unravel the meaning of the rest. Your intended recipient should know the keyword, because it is something close to both of you. Only use in times of great need, and don't let it get around. Only because I made it._

John looked at the code on the page and it matched the example shown, something about the 243 types of tobacco ash. He looked at the paper, and back to the computer screen, and couldn't think of a single thing that they had in common, besides address, but that was too easy. Sherlock liked to make it complicated. So he kept thinking, what in the flat could have been important.

He tried several things, Mrs. Hudson, Deduction, he even tried Sherlock's own name or the fact that both of them hated Mycroft. He tried Lestrade's name and Sherlock's fame, but then it dawned on him. The one thing that John had in common with Sherlock was in the apartment.

Sherlock, back on the day he had moved in, had compared John to the skull sitting on the mantel. He had said that he usually brought the skull to the case, he thought better when he talked aloud, and that John was a replacement for the skull. John laughed to think about that moment. He also called the skull a friend.

"_Well, when I say friend..."_

John tried the cipher once more with the key word SKULL and it worked for the first one, but the second one required some sort of different one. He tried the word FRIEND and it worked. The message John saw made him uneasy, but want to leap for joy at the same time.

_John, I am writing this in cipher to you, and if you have figured it out, good. Figuring out this message means that I taught you something, that not everything is as hard as it looks. Even I am still finding that difficult to wrap my mind around, because everything should be complicated. The fact you figured this out means you are smarter than Moriarty, Mycroft, or even I had originally thought. John, I am not dead. I know that it has been years, maybe one, maybe five, but please, please give me a chance. I know I have not always been the best friend in the past, but listen to me. Ask anything, you deserve an explanation. John, meet me at my grave on the night of October 8, the year you get this message. I will be there every year to see if you get it. I know, it is ambiguous, but you must listen to me. Eight PM sharp, on the date of this year. I would confront you myself but you would make a fit._

_ ~SH_

John had to read the message five times before the idea sunk into his head. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock did not die. How did he not die? He saw him jump and that surely was no decoy. He didn't care. All those times, all those places and he thought he was mad. Sherlock was there and John didn't even think it was real.

"You bastard" he said with a smile. But then, why lie to him? He knew that Sherlock was trying to save him from Moriarty, but how did he not want his name cleared? Why? He didn't stop to think, but went back to his flat. October eighth, in two days, John would go and meet Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

When I'm Gone

Chapter 8

October eighth came and John was in a daze the entire day. Three years since he had seen Sherlock. Three years. He had time to stew in the wait, and was angry. Why did Sherlock not tell him? He had made fun of his acting skills in the past, but at such a crucial moment, why neglect to tell him even the smallest glimpse that he would live? He had written it before the Fall, he knew he would live, but why not just tell him and wait three years before he got the book? Did Mycroft know? John suspected he did, and he would kill him for not telling him. He didn't think Lestrade would know, given his grief at the time, and the length he went to clear Sherlock's name. He would get his answers tonight, and if he didn't, he would make sure Sherlock actually died this time.

John walked to the cemetery instead of taking a cab. This was the first time in three years that he visited the grave, the first and last being after the funeral. He stood for half an hour, it being seven-thirty, and waited for Sherlock to come. Eight o'clock passed, and John was growing anxious. Sherlock was always on time, not ever a minute late. It had been three years though, maybe he forgot it was at eight and perhaps would come at eight-thirty. So he waited another half an hour.

When Sherlock didn't come, John sat by his grave. Tears rolled down his face as he gave up. Maybe Sherlock didn't want to see him anymore, maybe Sherlock was gone away. Maybe he found a new friend or was with Mycroft getting set up somewhere else. Wherever he was, he wasn't here, with John.

"I thought you would remember. You would never delete something like this. You always remember. I saw you. Why didn't you say something? YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING."  
John was in tears, regressing back to the first days of Sherlock's death, when he felt pain and anger and fear of the loss. He felt he had lost Sherlock all over again, and the feeling of it was indescribable.

* * *

The night of October eighth was going as usual for Sherlock. Boring. He hadn't seen John at all, thank God, and he actually ate something today. At around seven, he decided to take a walk around London, to see if he remembered his shortcuts. Well, that was his excuse. Of course he knew the ways, he hadn't deleted them. He just felt cooped up and chancing his luck, decided on a stroll. Around eight forty-five, he came to the cemetery where he-well, Moriarty-was buried. He saw a figure lamenting in the general area of his grave, and went in to see who the grieving person was, being reminded of John.

The figure was sitting by Sherlock's tombstone saying how he needed him and how he was never there, and Sherlock was unnerved by the content of the speaker.

"John..." he whispered to himself, hoping to God that wasn't what he reduced John to after all this time.

"You said it would be today...you promised I would get my answers. Where are you Sherlock? You're never here. You don't need me, do you? Just used me as your skull, as your ego boost. Tell me, what was my real purpose for coming here? So you could laugh at me?"

"No, don't be silly, John." Sherlock said to himself. He didn't have the nerve to go over and comfort John, to hold him and say he was really there, he was really back. He let the man finish his monologue, and he walked back the way he came, hoping he didn't cause a real suicide this time.

* * *

John stayed by the grave for a while after finishing his rant. Not wanting to be reminded of Sherlock, he stayed where he was instead of walking back to 221B. John took his coat off and used it as a blanket, sat with his back against the stone, and slept restlessly through the night.

At seven in the morning, his phone went off.

"Who could bloody be texting me this early in the morning?" he asked himself.  
He looked at the number and it was one he didn't recognise. He didn't think it could be Sherlock, as he could not see him apologising for anything. He had deleted his number last night and found he had not remembered it, which was for the better, he supposed.

The text was, however; from Sherlock, as he saw the two letters that made him cringe.

_John, stay where you are. I'll come meet you there._

_ -SH_

John sat there, stunned, whatnot with the text, the nerve of Sherlock Holmes, and the nonchalance he seemed to have with texting him, something he had not done any other time he saw him.

"The idiot has the nerve to text me, but doesn't even say 'I'm sorry'. What an ass."

It reminded him of the fall, how he had said he knew Sherlock wasn't a fake, only because

"_...no one could fake being such an annoying dick head all the time."_

He stayed there, only so he was able to slug him when he did show up...maybe. And so he sat for the next hour, thinking of all the ways to kill Sherlock Holmes, minus pushing him off a rooftop. Thus was the story of John Watson.

* * *

Sherlock had felt bad about not seeing John, and so he took Mycroft's advice and texted him. He was fairly sure he had gone back to the flat, and so he would meet him there that morning. At seven AM, he texted John with the intention of finally explaining everything and maybe even getting a case, if time allowed. He smiled at the thought, him and his blogger, going out for cases once more.

Half an hour later, he was at the door to his old flat, and all the memories he had not deleted, which were quite immense, flooded back. He walked up the familiar staircase, thankful it had not changed at all, and went into the flat. Not even the key had changed. He saw that nothing had changed, except for the experiments had been cleaned up, as he expected.

"John?" he called out, standing in the middle of the flat. "John, did you get my text? Come down." He did not hear footsteps, and waited a few seconds for maybe hands around his throat, but not even that occurred. He went up to John's room, looked inside, and found his sheets messy, as always, but were cold. John had not slept here last night. He noticed that his blanket was on the bed, signaling John had used it for comfort and a reminder of Sherlock.

He texted him again, asking where he was, and to come to back to the flat. He received no response. He paced the room again, thinking of why John had not responded, and hoped he was not dead himself. Ten minutes later, he received a response from John:

_Be there in ten minutes. You better be there, Sherlock Holmes._

_ -JW_

He wondered why John had used his full name. He felt like a child being yelled at, and this was his punishment, little response from John. Sherlock felt guilt and slumped down in his chair. He waited ten minutes, and John was not there.

_John?_

_ -SH_

Ten more minutes.

_John? I can understand, but please be reasonable._

_ -SH_

Twenty minutes.

_John, please. Please come back. I need to talk to you._

_ -SH_

This was the first time he had ever begged for something in his life, something he was not used to but deemed necessary for getting John's attention. He sat and waited, and within five minutes he hard the door knob turn.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"John..."


	9. Chapter 9

When I'm Gone

Chapter 9

John had received not one, not two, but three texts from Sherlock during the time he took to walk home. He admitted to himself, he had taken the long way, and by long he meant he stopped by the bakery for breakfast, not giving a damn of what Sherlock thought. The last two texts from Sherlock had been begging John to come home, and he finally went, because he did not want to have to suffer from a guilt trip, especially not one Sherlock Holmes could pull.

He walked up the stairs to the flat and stood at the door, not sure if he was ready to do this. He took a few deep breaths, in order to not kill him, and turned the knob slowly, making Sherlock wait just a little bit longer, to make sure he had the upper hand in the situation.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"John..."

John looked away, tears in his eyes. He couldn't let Sherlock know that he was crying.

"John, I'm sorry. Don't turn your back on me." Sherlock said the first part with sympathy, but as John turned away, he rose from his seat and became firmer.

"Sherlock. Three years. And then, if that's not enough, I figure out your little cypher, and you don't even show up. Why do I bother?"

"John, listen. I will explain everything. Sit down, I'll get tea."

"There's no milk."

"Yes there is, I went and got some," he said with a smirk. "I knew you were out when I got here, so I took the liberty and-"

John walked behind him and turned him around so Sherlock was facing him. He brought his hand up and slapped Sherlock across the face. That felt good. He wanted to do it again, but the stunned look on Sherlock's face said he understood, and so he didn't bother.

"You went and got milk, because you knew I would come, yet when I figure out your cypher, you don't even show up. Sherlock."

"John, sit down. Please. I'll take care of everything." The look Sherlock gave off was mesmerizing, even John couldn't compete with it. It was a look mixed of sadness and of hope and of...something else. John couldn't ever remember Sherlock with that kind of look. He sat down in his chair, a look of stone across his face and he sat, waiting for his flatmate to give him his tea.

The room was deadly silent for fifteen minutes, and Sherlock came over with the tea and stood by John.

"Here you are, cream, no sugar? Just like your coffee?"

"Yes, thank you." John was a little surprised by the fact he had remembered he took his drinks the same, but then again, he did have it written down, so he didn't fuss over it so much.

"I'm not leaving again, John. Ever."

"Why did you decide to come back?"

"Because I couldn't stand being away from my home," The words came out of Sherlock's mouth before he could even think about what he said. First, it sounded way too emotional to be him. Second, was it even his home? Yes, his things were here, but he had only lived there for eighteen months, where as John for about four years. "John, I want to be here. I forgot the date I was supposed to meet you, that's why I didn't come last night. As for Moriarty; he's gone. He's dead. I did jump, but I had a team to help me out." he gave off a half smile, with a glow and a gleam of hope that John would figure it out and understand.

"Moriarty made you jump, and you had the Homeless Network set you up so I wouldn't know it wasn't really you...dead."

"Exactly. I propelled down, I had a rope to scale down from, and then the Homeless Network helped me to look the part. The bike hit you at the exact time I fell to the ground-it still hurt, yes John-but I was able to survive and went to attack Moriarty's henchmen. John, I tried to save you."

"What about the DNA? Molly?"

"Precisely."

"No wonder she acted guilty when she took me out," John said begrudgingly. "But why tell her and not me?"

"Molly wouldn't be seeing you, and even she has better acting skills than you, John." They both chuckled.

The hours went on, and they sat there until about six, when John requested they eat.

"Not hungry."

"Sherlock, where were you even staying this whole time? And how long?"

"About six months, in a flat across from the bakery."

"So it _was_ you I saw in the window."

"Yes, and I was too scared to confront you, John."

"Sherlock Holmes, scared?"

"I didn't want you to act out. I know you have a tendency for violence," he said this, referring to the mark left on his cheekbone after John had hit him. "John, I wanted to come back, I did. I couldn't risk it though. I couldn't risk you not wanting to see me or you moving on."

"Sherlock, you are honestly my best friend. How could I ever forget how annoying you were?" They laughed out loud now, and John got up to stretch.

"Do you want me to make you something, John?"

"Sherlock, can you even cook?"

"Surprised?"

"A bit, yeah. How- when did you learn?"

"I had to when I was on my own, I'm not too bad, to be modest about it."

"I'll just get take away from the place down the street."

"I can come with you, if you want?" he asked as if it were a question instead of a choice.

"No, you can stay..." John sounded unsure, which in fact he was. He wasn't willing to accept his best friend was back, and he wasn't sure what to do, or if he was going to leave him again. Sherlock was acting nicer than usual, he didn't know why and it was weird.

John walked out the door, and looked back at Sherlock, who was sitting down sipping tea. He looked up at John.

"Don't worry, I wont go anywhere." he said nonchalantly, picking up John's laptop, tried the password, and smiled to find it was the same as when he left.

"I'll be back in a tick" And he left Sherlock to his own devices.

* * *

Sherlock looked at John when he got in, and was stunned when he saw the cold look on his face.

"John..." he said as John looked away. "John, I'm sorry, don't turn your back on me." He was upset that he angered John, but couldn't have him walking out on him. He had to be firm, but he knew he had changed, that John being this close had sort of an effect on him. John was saying something, yelling at him, and Sherlock tried to show John he cared. He got up and walked into the kitchen, and told John he got milk.

"I went and bought some, I knew you were out when I came and took the liberty to get some."

He heard John behind him, grabbing him and turning him around, and he saw him bring his hand up. For a split second, he thought John was going to kiss him. Instead, he felt a sting across his cheek, and saw the look on John's face. His eyes were still dull, but had tears in them, making them shine. He was going to walk away, but Sherlock figured he kind of deserved that, so he let it go.

"John, sit down." he said after John yelled once again. He saw him go over to the chair and sit, and so he stood waiting for the water to boil.

Sherlock stood, thinking about the past few days and how John would react when he told him about everything. With the silence in the room, he wondered if John would even ask him anything. He heard the kettle boil and brought the tea over to John, just how he liked it. It was the first time he ever had to strive to impress someone. But John wasn't someone. He was Sherlock's best friend-his only friend.

"Here you are, no cream, no sugar? Just like your coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

For a split second, he saw his eyebrows raise, he must have been surprised he remembered. But he saw his face fall back to the stony look as before, and so he eased John into the questions.

"I'm not leaving again, John. Ever."

"Why did you decide to come back?"

'I didn't decide anything, John. I had to come back for your sake. You are home for me John.' Oh how he longed to say that, how he longed to show the slightest bit of emotion. He couldn't betray his thoughts now, though. He would wait until John trusted him again, even if it took a while.

"Because I couldn't stand being away from home." He looked down at his feet when he said it, and John just looked at him, judging his emotional standby for any lies that may have come out. He wasn't lying, but John didn't know that because what he had said was not normal.

He explained everything to John, and when he had a question, Sherlock tried to answer it in the most detailed way possible, just making sure John understood it completely before moving on. The whole process took hours, when John would repeat himself trying to test Sherlock's thoroughness. Apparently Sherlock passed the test because John allowed himself a laugh or two every so often, which made Sherlock smile in return.

He heard John's stomach growl as he got up to stretch and offered to make dinner.

"Do you want me to make you something, John?" he allowed himself a smirk, now being cheeky with him. John looked astonished, he never knew Sherlock could cook and Sherlock knew it.

"Surprised?"

"A bit, yeah. How- when did you learn?"

He told him his short history with cooking, and then John offered to get take away from the place down the street. Sherlock offered to come, well, more so a question, but John refused. Sherlock blew off the rejection, sitting down and playing with John's laptop as he went out the door. John looked back at him and Sherlock looked up. He figured John would be nervous about leaving him alone, he was still insecure of course.

"Don't worry, I won't go anywhere." he said with a smile, unlocked John's laptop and got onto his website. John sighed, and went out the door to get the food.

Sherlock allowed this bit of time to get the feel of the place again, hoping his room hadn't changed much. He was right, it hadn't changed at all. Not even the covers had changed, meaning John hadn't cleaned his room at all. He did find that a few of his shirts had gone missing, and they happened to be all of John's favorites. Sure enough, when he went to find them, they were in John's room, under the covers. He smiled and allowed himself the pleasure of taking them back, because he would be wearing them more often, so John would trust him again.

He knew John was still wary of him, absolutely. He also knew that it would be a while until he was ready for what John wanted. Or, so he assumed. Sherlock figured that once John warmed up to him again, he would definitely make a move on Sherlock. He wasn't quite ready. Friendship, of course. But he was not completely emotionally attached, let alone physically. It would take quite some time for both of them, he supposed, and let the thought take over his mind.

Sherlock stepped into the bathroom, figuring he had about twenty minutes, and took a shower, lingering on every thought, every memory, every moment that was swallowing him up since he stepped foot in the flat.

'So this is emotion. This is human. This is not ordinary.' he thought to himself.


	10. Chapter 10

When I'm Gone

Chapter 10

Sherlock heard John coming into the flat and shout his name. He decided to not get out of the shower, just to see where it would lead. He was feeling a bit cruel, now that he was willingly becoming more and more human.

"Sherlock?" John's voice carried into the bedroom. "Sherlock where are you?"

Sherlock was surprised John didn't hear the water flowing from the shower head, but still decided to stay quiet and keep pondering over this new..._mortality_, so it was to him.

"Sherlock, seriously where are you?" he could hear John in the bedroom.

'Getting warmer. Come on, John, think. Use your head, or maybe your ears.' Sherlock thought.

"Sherlock? Wait, you're in the shower, aren't you? I'll just...be right outside then."

'There you go.' He thought. He got out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel, and went into his room. He saw John on the bed and jumped.

"Oh. This is what you meant by outside...,"

"I-I can leave," he stammered. It had never occurred to Sherlock that this was the first time he hadn't had a shirt on around John. Come to think of it, it was the first time he didn't really have pants on either. Sherlock was indifferent to it, not really caring too much about what John thought.

"You can stay, I don't care, really." He blew it off with such nonchalance that he saw John's face fall a bit. He didn't realise that it would take this quickly for John to forgive him and trust him again. "John, do you forgive me already?" he asked the first thing on his mind, not really minding any response he got.

"Yeah, I do. You're my best friend, Sherlock, even if you are a complete git most of the time. I trust you and you told me the truth, everything I wanted to know. Yeah, of course I forgive you."

Sherlock went over to his dresser and put on some trousers and a shirt, walked over to John and sat down.

"Why? I left you. You trust me too easily." he got up with a smirk and left John to ponder it a bit. He had to admit, he was having a bit of fun now that he had gotten used to feeling emotion, even if it was a sadistic, cruel feeling.

John followed him out into the kitchen and grabbed a box of take away and sat down at the table. He sat there, looking at John, wondering what to make of him. He was trusting, loyal for sure, but as he couldn't with the Woman, he could not deduce John as well. Was it because he was attracted to him? He was interested in the Woman, that was why he couldn't deduce her. He saw John as almost an equal. Someone who he wouldn't get bored with, someone to keep up with him. Maybe that was why. He wasn't ordinary.

They ate in silence, each of them looking at the other once in a while. It was still such a new and awkward atmosphere for them both. Usually Sherlock would get up from the table, sit down on his bed and go through his mind palace looking for things to delete, but now he had to wait for John, who, while it was okay for that to happen, it was bothersome and sort of tedious. He lived a fast paced life and couldn't be bothered with such insignificance.

"Should we go out tonight?" said John.

"Why would we do that?"

"Better than sitting here watching crap telly, don't you think?"

"Let's walk, John."

Both of them got up from the table, got on their coats, Sherlock a scarf, and headed out the door. At this time, Mrs. Hudson had been walking out the trash, and came back in just in time to see Sherlock coming out. She looked up at him and tears formed in her eyes.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" she said, her voice cracking a bit.

He looked at her, his eyes full of sympathy, and said calmly to her, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. It's me." And he took her into his arms.

"Sherlock, I thought you were dead. Oh don't scare me like that, I was so upset." She hit him across the arm, lightly of course, and walked him inside. John followed them in.

"John would never shut up about you, shall I make you both some tea?"

"No-"

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock looked at John, knowing he would stop talking immediately. Of course, when he looked, John became silent.

"...thought you were dead, I even had to have Mycroft over to console him. John would always have something to say about you, I could never get him off you." She walked in with three cups and winked at John as he blushed red. She sat across from Sherlock and gave him a look of gratitude that he echoed back at her.

"I'm glad to have come back. It was awful. I need a new life. No. What I need is a case. John, shall we go over to Lestrade and ask him for one?"

"Sherlock, it's nine in the evening. We should just wait until tomorrow." John sighed, exasperated from the day's events.

Sherlock looked at him, a new gleam in his eyes, one of a game, of a hunt. He wanted a case, and he wanted it now. He was bored. Couldn't John see that? Or was he just wanting Sherlock to himself?

'Everyday you would come talk to Mrs. Hudson about me John?' Sherlock smirked to himself, finding all this new information about John. Mrs. Hudson went on to explain how everyone was after his death, doting on John and Lestrade the most. John blushed when she would talk about him, and Sherlock saw every one of his weaknesses, and promised himself not to use them against John, no matter how sadistic he was feeling right now.

John finally had to leave, and so he got up and put the cup in the sink. "I think it's time we head out, yeah? Sherlock?"

"Right, yes, of course John."

Sherlock got up, hugged Mrs. Hudson, and headed out the door, him following John this time. They went outside to continue, well begin really, their walk.

"John, why were you so anxious in Mrs. Hudson's flat?" of course he knew, but he wouldn't let on that he did.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"John, the entire street could see you blush."

"Sherlock, just to let you know, Mrs. Hudson is exaggerating. I was not in everyday to talk about you."

"I believe you, John, I have no doubt." he did know John was telling the truth, Mrs. Hudson did like to tell a story.

They walked up a couple of streets, up to Sherlock's old flat, and walked in.

"So this is where you stalked me?" John said.

"Not stalked, no," This time it was Sherlock's turn to blush, "I merely watched you from afar, just until you got the note, I suppose." They both laughed and John sat on the bed.

"You don't have a lot of things then?"

"No, only what I needed, I packed in a case," He opened his closet and packed his clothes in it again. "I suppose I shouldn't just assume. Do you want me back in 221B?"

"Yes of course, why wouldn't I? I mean do you want to be back? I can understand if you don-," John rambled on and looked down when Sherlock cut him off.

"John, I want to be back, if I didn't, I would have stayed here and never have talked to you. I want to move back in. Do you want me there?"

"Well, of course I do."

"Good. Then let's go home." Sherlock said with a warm smile on his face. He knew John would want him back, but he did want to see how John would react to the question.

The pair left, walked outside and hailed a cab. They both didn't feel like walking with the case, and so they got in the cab and left. Sherlock took a moment to pause and take it all in. He could feel John's eyes on him the entire ride home. The cab stopped, and Sherlock got out while John paid the cabbie, just like old times.

They walked into 221B and Sherlock put his case down in his room and started unpacking. It was ten now.

"Aren't you in the least bit tired?"

"No, not really."

John yawned, "If you don't mind, I'm going to go to bed. Don't leave me."

Sherlock snapped up at that. He said "don't leave _me"._ Not just to leave, but to leave John. What context did that have. He looked over his shoulder at John, and saw his face, mouth in a line, forehead scrunched and eyebrows raised. He had a look of pity in his eyes, as he silently pleaded for Sherlock to not only stay, but stay with him.

"I would never leave." he said in response, intentionally leaving out the "you".

He got into pyjamas, and lay down on the bed. He was in no way tired, but he felt the need to sleep upon him as he became lost in his thoughts.

"Don't leave me." he repeated John's words, searching for every sign, every bit of flirtation. He was in no way trying to lead John on, but getting a feel for having any type of emotion. He figured he needed a little practice with empathy before he was ready for any kind of attachment, but figured that was something for tomorrow. He would also go to Lestrade, take whatever beating he deserved at the Yard, and get a case. He let his eyes shut close and gave himself over to unconsciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

When I'm Gone

Chapter 11

As soon as John went out to get the food, he knew it was a bad idea to leave Sherlock alone in the flat, because he might find...things. They weren't all that bad, but he had been taking his shirts in order to comfort himself, and he really didn't want Sherlock to think he was needy. He was starting to forgive him and the feelings were slowly coming back. He was annoyed at himself. He did love Sherlock, yes, but he didn't need Sherlock to know that. He went into the food place, got the containers, and walked back into the brisk autumn evening. It was about 7 now and he needed to get home to make sure Sherlock hadn't left, maybe to get a case.

"No, he said he wouldn't leave. Not even for a case. What was he doing when I left? On my laptop? Thank God I have nothing to hide there." he continued his self monologue as he continues down the street, opening the door into 221 and climbing up the stair, warm food in his arms.

"Sherlock?" he shouted as he walked through the doorway, "Sherlock, where are you?" He heard no reply, and started to get worried as his worst fears may have come true.

"Sherlock, seriously, where are you?" he was frantic now, "Oh God please don't leave." he said to himself. He went into Sherlock's bedroom, not even hearing the shower because his own heart was pounding in his ears.

'Okay, he probably didn't leave, he might just be in my room, be sensible, John, calm down and-oh.' He thought when he heard the shower running, "Wait, you're in the shower, aren't you? I'll just...be outside then."

He sat on the bed for two minutes before he heard the water turn off and the door open. Steam poured into the room as Sherlock came out, his hair in his face and his body- his body. John had never seen him without a shirt before and he couldn't help himself from getting a peek. He was pale, yes, but not the sickly white, but more of a cream colour. His hair was even more black than possibly thought before, the wet curls hanging down in his face. John blushed a bit and looked away.

"Oh, this is what you meant by outside...," Sherlock had jumped when he saw him, not used to John being so near him.

"I-I can leave," he felt so stupid. Of course Sherlock would be looking at him weird, he was trespassing into his room, and he didn't even have a shirt.

"You can stay, I don't care, really." He said with an air of rejection, and John felt blown off.

Sherlock asked why John trusted him again as he was dressing, and John couldn't believe what he had asked, more importantly why. He was John's best friend, he knew everything about Sherlock. Of course he trusted him. He had been mad, but after every explanation, all had been forgiven.

The two went out and got food in the kitchen, John following behind Sherlock, waiting for him to make the first move. The two ate in silence, and John felt the need to take a walk to get out his tension and angst, as he was on the edge. Sherlock however; was not, or so it seemed to John. He couldn't really tell, he was more like his usual self now. He kept sneaking glimpses of him during dinner, and he tried to stop himself, but there was no avail. He was still in love with Sherlock Holmes, a man who would never love him back.

John suggested the two go out so that way John could get some of his tension released, and so maybe they could get Sherlock's remaining things and hopefully have him move in again. The two got their coats on, Sherlock his trademark scarf, and headed out. As they went out the door, they found Mrs. Hudson coming in from taking out her bags. John was a bit annoyed because he knew now this would delay their trip by at least and hour or so, and he wanted Sherlock to himself for just a day.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" she asked, her eyes wide and shining.

He took her into his arms and led them into her flat for a cup of tea, which he knew Sherlock would stay for. He may have been a sociopath, but at least he was polite. John admired him for it.

He often wondered what it was like to be Sherlock, as a sociopath, able to not feel a thing, focus on the real details. Sherlock was able to make anyone like him, he had a sort of aura about him that drew someone like John in. He didn't understand how Sherlock wasn't a people person, or if that was a sociopathic tendency, but it made him intrigued. Maybe that's why he was attracted; Sherlock was a mystery to him.

"John would never shut up about you, shall I make you some tea?" she asked both of them.

"No I don-"

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock looked at John to shut up. He obeyed the silent command at once.

John looked down at his feet, away from Sherlock's glare. He couldn't believe that's how she would start the conversation. He didn't talk about him all the time, just a few times. Well, the majority, but not hour upon hour. She was implying that the only thing on his mind was Sherlock. Okay, on that one he didn't have an excuse. But she could have kept her mouth shut. Sherlock smirked and chuckled a bit as John sank down and blushed, as if he thought it was funny that John had a crush on him. He was sure that Sherlock probably wasn't laughing at him, but he couldn't be absolutely sure, and it made him blush harder.

Sherlock brought up getting a new case for tomorrow and John looked at him like he was mad. The last thing he needed was a case while getting settled in after swooping back in on his best friend. But then again, this was Sherlock, and he did what he wanted, and no one could stop him. He said to at least wait until the next day. Sherlock acted as if he were a child who just got told no to a new toy.

The two started talking about John and his tendencies again and John interrupted.

"I think it's time we head out, yeah? Sherlock?"

"Right, yes, of course John." Sherlock agreed willingly enough, which made John feel as though his opinion was heard, something not of the norm of Sherlock Holmes.

The two made their final departing notes, said goodnight to Mrs. Hudson, and left the building. They headed down a few streets and came to Sherlock's new flat. They went in and John found himself sitting on the bed.

"So this is where you stalked me?" John said flatly while looking around the place. It was definitely smaller than 221, but it was only one person instead of the both of them, so it was understandable.

"Not stalking, no," said he, as he blushed this time, "I merely watched you from afar until you got the note, I suppose." They both chuckled at the statement.

John noticed that he didn't have a lot of things in the flat, and wondered aloud why. Sherlock said that he didn't need much while on the run, and John figured he didn't, what could you possibly need while hunting down your nemesis' gunmen? He just listened to what Sherlock said about his adventures and spaced out until Sherlock posed a frightening question.

"Do you want me back in 221B?"

John was appalled. Of course he did! How could he not, after missing his presence every single day, watching him light up the room. John stammered through an answer, he didn't know how to say it without conveying too much or too little. As Sherlock was too little sentimental, John was too much.

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't I? I mean do you want to be back? I can understand if you don-" he was cut off by Sherlock, once again, but this time with a more pleasant answer.

"John, I want to be back, if I didn't, I would have stayed here and never have talked to you. I want to move back in. Do you want me there?"

"Well, of course I do." John said matter-of-factly. It was a fact, really. He wanted, no, needed Sherlock there with him. He was John's other half.

The two packed up, and headed back to Baker Street, this time by cab. Sherlock didn't feel like carrying his suitcase and neither did John. The two hailed a cab and got in. As they went down, Sherlock was staring out a window, probably thinking about a case or what to do with Lestrade tomorrow. John kept sneaking peeks at him, looking at his contour, the lights of London reflecting off his pale face. It was a mysterious kind of beauty, though he was sure that Sherlock would have his head for being called a beauty. Even his instincts as a male had to have at least that kind of a limit.

They got out of the cab and John paid, like it was before the Fall. He walked up the stairs behind Sherlock and followed him into his room, standing in the doorway as he watched Sherlock put away his things systematically.

"Aren't you in the least bit tired?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"No, not really." he replied, absentminded as he was focused on another task.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to go to bed. Don't leave me."

He saw Sherlock come back into his conscious mind as his head came up, and he looked at John intensely.

"I would never leave." he stated.

John walked up to his bedroom and sat in bed. He thought of the course the day took, wondering if it would ever seem real again, wondering if the Great Sherlock Holmes would ever feel some sort of sentiment towards John. He seemed to already, but maybe that was just the nerves. Did Sherlock ever feel nervous? Now John wanted to know. He would save that for another day. He laid down, turned off the lights, and resigned himself over to a peaceful sleep. The first one in years.


	12. Chapter 12

When I'm Gone

Chapter 12

Sherlock never had dreams while he slept. Or, at least, he never remembered them. Tonight was one of those rare exceptions, however; as he dreamt of something he would rather not dream of. After the fall, more specifically, those first few nights he was away from John, he was restless when it came to sleep after having night terrors about Moriarty and John dead because of him. Sherlock always woke up and craved some kind of comfort, always wanting to reach for his violin and wake John up as he did before the Fall, but no such thing happened. When he realised he was no longer at home, he would sit up, wrap himself in his covers, and stay awake in his mind palace, deducing and re-deducing past cases in his mind to lull him back to sleep. The night terrors slowly went away, until something traumatic happened.

'That's the first trigger of my emotions, the PTSD,' Sherlock thought to himself whenever he went over past events.

He first began to notice his shift a few weeks before he came back to London. Always after something that would make someone else giddy or depressed, he held back until his subconscious would not let him, hence, the night terrors.

Tonight, after seeing John and watching him stumble over his crush on Sherlock, he thought everything would settle down and become peaceful. Not the case was this. He never thought that his mind would carry on as such, succumb to such human emotions such as zeal or melancholy, but it made him regress back to earlier stages of being away from John, like in the beginning.

Sherlock woke up with a start from this certain night terror, one unlike the others because it involved him and John switching places at the Fall, him having to live without the solace of knowing John was alive. He woke up with a start and felt sweat dripping down his face. No, wait, that wasn't sweat. They were tears running down his face. He could hear John coming down the stairs. Had he been quite that loud?

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you okay? Did something happen? What's the matter?" John asked in a hurry, rushing down the flight of stairs, thudding on each one noisily.

"John?" he asked like a child, a child waiting for its mother to come and scare the monsters away. The only problem was that John would never be able to, because Sherlock _was _the monster.

"Sherlock, I heard you yelling. What happened, bad dream?" he came in the room and sat on the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

"John- what- how...how bad was it?" he asked nervously, as if he would get in trouble.

"I heard you yelling my name and then you started crying out. Sherlock, if you wanted me to sleep with you, you had to just ask." he said lightly, trying to cheer Sherlock up.

"Hm." Sherlock didn't react to John's tease, instead looking at him and scooting over on the bed. "The bed can fit two, John. Sit with me?" He asked this very delicately, as to not stir up feelings in John. He wasn't ready for anything.

"People will definitely talk now." he said

"I don't care, get in." said Sherlock.

The two lay together in the dark, John looking at Sherlock who stared straight ahead, scowling at himself in the mirror.

"What's wrong? You look like you've just seen a monster."

"I am."

"What?"

"I am one, John. I am a monster." Sherlock didn't miss a beat in saying something, and John became increasingly worried at his responses.

"Sherlock, how bad was it? What was the dream about?"

Sherlock stared ahead, refusing to answer his question.

"Sherlock?"

"The Fall, John, the Fall." Sherlock said. He waited to see if John would ask anything else.

"Something specific about it? Anything different?" John was prodding him to see what he could get, to see Sherlock in his weak moment. He was lucky Sherlock trusted him, or else he would have been kicked out by now. But seeing as though Sherlock did share a mental bond with him, he decided to placate John and tell him.

"It was you...and me, of course. But...switched," he stopped, wondering how much he should let on. "And you jumped, but I didn't know you survived. John, how did it feel when I jumped? How did it feel without me?" A tear slipped out of his eye, landing on his cheek, the moonlight shining on his streaked face.

"It felt...God, Sherlock, it felt awful. Like I would have died if you didn't come back much later. It was...," he tried to find the words, but the only thing that came out was, "it was heartbreaking."

"I'm sorry, John."

"What was it like for you? In the dream, I mean?" Sherlock could see he upset John, and he offered a hand.

"John, I know how you feel about societal standards but if it makes you feel any better you can-" John took his hand without hesitation.

"Sherlock, your hands! They're freezing!"

"I suppose they would be, bodily reaction to night terrors."

"What?"

"I've trained my body to freeze up, literally, when these occur, so I can condition myself not to have them. Obviously, I need to work on it again, so I don't disturb you anymore."

"No, no Sherlock, it's...it's okay. I'm here for you, if you need me to be."

Sherlock smiled, a small but grateful smile, and he turned to John and said "Thank you." and he meant it.

The two sat in silence, both of John's hand on one of Sherlock's to warm it up. They sat there for about thirty minutes until John asked Sherlock again, "Sherlock, you never did say how you felt."

"Felt about what?"

"In your dream."

"Oh."

"Well?"

"John...I don't know. I don't really know how to describe it. I felt...sad" it came out limp, Sherlock not wanting to remember. It felt more than sad, he felt like he just lost his soul mate, his other half. He felt dead.

"How did you feel when you went on the run?"

"I don't know. I never really felt anything. I just kept running. I did it to save you, you know. To save my...my friends." it came out in a whisper. He had never thought of it like that before. He would never think of it again that way as well, he promised himself.

He closed his eyes, relishing the warmth of John's hands clasped around his.

'Is this what affection feels like?'

Sherlock had never known affection. He could have. Molly would have gladly shown. But she was boring, too predictable. He had never offered her a chance and didn't have any second thoughts about it. Because he wanted someone to keep up with him, to challenge him. Not just comply like she did. He wanted something interesting. That's why he felt so at home with John. He felt that John could handle him. He felt John was his own piece of work, not just something he could manipulate. He had a mind.

John's eyes started drooping down and Sherlock followed suit. He just had one more thing to say.

"John, what is it like not being me?"

"What do you mean?"

"What is it like to have someone, to not be alone?"

"Sherlock, you are most definitely not alone. I can guarantee that."

"Hm?"

"You have everything you need, everything you want. What could possibly make you alone?"

"I don't feel things to your capacity. I get rid of sentiment. It wastes space and time. How could someone possibly put up with me?"

"You learn to see around it and appreciate the emotion they do have."

"Too easy."

"Not everything is that complicated, Sherlock, not even love."

Sherlock huffed and didn't reply to that. He waited a few minutes and heard John's breathing deepen, indicating he was asleep. Sherlock found a comfortable position, his hand still in between John's, and fell asleep until morning.

'Tomorrow, I'm going to find a case. That's what I need. A case...' and thus was his last thought before he was under.


	13. Chapter 13

When I'm Gone

Chapter 13

It was around two AM when John heard Sherlock's voice from downstairs. He was asleep, really asleep, for the first time in ages. But as soon as he heard his name being called, he didn't hesitate to find out what was causing it.

"John. No. John. JOHN." and it cut off. He heard the voice cry out and stop.

He woke up immediately, sprang out of bed, put his robe on and went downstairs.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you okay? Did something happen? What's the matter?" he asked worriedly, wondering what happened.

He rushed into the bedroom and found Sherlock sitting in his bed, staring in the mirror, nostrils flared, eyes open wide and chest rising and falling, breathing heavily.

"John?" Sherlock looked at John, a silent plea in his eyes to come sit down with him.

John pulled up a chair and sat by the bed, not wanting to intrude in Sherlock's personal space. He was quite touchy about it, and he figured it would be worse at two in the morning.

"Sherlock, I heard you yelling. What's wrong? Bad dream?" he asked calmly, not trying to worry Sherlock even more or push too hard.

When he tried to tease Sherlock, he wasn't reacting to it, meaning he wasn't paying attention. Sure enough, he kept scowling at himself in the mirror. He saw Sherlock come back to reality and look over at John, scooting over on the bed.

"The bed can fit two, John. Sit with me?"

John hadn't expected Sherlock to be so open, he looked like a scared child. He didn't know what to do, whether or not to refuse the invitation into Sherlock's bed.

'Wow, that sounds...awful.' John thought to himself.

"People will definitely talk now." he stated, only half-joking.

"I don't care. Get in."

Since when was Sherlock so adamant about getting close to John? He didn't know, and part of him didn't care. He had to really restrain himself from basically snuggling against the man in the bed. He figured Sherlock wouldn't take to that well, if at all. He would probably be freaked out.

He crawled in the bed, and looked at Sherlock who was looking at the mirror again.

"What's wrong? You look like you've just seen a monster."

"I am."

"What?"

"I am one, John. I am a monster."

John looked at him confused and scared. Of course he wasn't a monster! He was Sherlock's best friend, he would know. Sherlock never did anything so bad it was a villainous crime. Maybe he got a little ticked at things Sherlock did, but monstrous? He was one of the most heroic people John had eve known, defeating monsters instead of being one.

He asked Sherlock what his dream was about and as soon as he said the Fall, John knew something was up. Sherlock tended not to dwell on past events if he could help it. Sure, this one was a bit significant, but Moriarty was dead, so why should he be worried about it?

"Something specific about it? Anything different?" he asked, wanting to know the real problem, to put it in Moriarty's terms, the Final Problem. The final problem was that Moriarty was still getting Sherlock upset even after his death. John was not happy about that, Sherlock deserved at least a little peace of mind, whatever that meant to him.

"It was you...and me, of course. But...switched," he said hesitantly. John wanted to press him to go on, but he just watched and waited.

The dream worried John, but excited him at the same time. It proved Sherlock had some emotion, that he wasn't just a machine. Which meant there was hope for John, if he waited long enough. However, he must have hit a nerve because as soon as he asked about his feelings, Sherlock held his hand out and asked John to take it, which he did without any thought to it.

His hands were freezing, but John didn't care. His skin was smooth, yet rough at the same time. It felt natural against his own hands. He wanted to lace their fingers together so badly, but he resisted, figuring too much too soon would shut down Sherlock, and he could not afford to have that happen with progress being made.

"Sherlock, you never did say how you felt."

"Felt about what?"

"In your dream."

"Oh."

"Well?"

"John...I don't know. I don't really know how to describe it. I felt...sad"

Sad? Sad how? John needed to know. There were many different levels of sadness. What level Sherlock was capable of feeling, he didn't know, and he longed to know his limits.

When asked about how he was when running from London, Sherlock started to time out on him. He didn't feel anything, yet he went to save everyone he knew? It didn't make sense. There was a piece John was missing, but he wasn't going to pry now. He would wait, give it time, until Sherlock was ready. When he was, he would listen intently, glean every little thing there was to know about him. John wanted to know Sherlock better than anyone else. That was his goal, if nothing else.

By now John had both of his hands around Sherlock's one hand, trying to make it warm again. He heard Sherlock sigh, not knowing if Sherlock even knew he sighed, and figured that his hand was warm again. The two sat in silence for a while when he heard Sherlock pipe up again, almost timidly.

"John, what is it like not being me?"

"What do you mean?"

What did he mean? Not being him? Was he back to normal again, trying to call John ordinary, an idiot? Why would he ask that if not rhetorically? Sherlock had never questioned himself, this dream must have made him hurt more than he was letting on. Then, of course, when did Sherlock Holmes ever let on about his feelings more than once in the course of three years?

"What is it like to have someone, to not be alone?"

Alone was definitely not what he was. He had John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. Everyone cared in their own way, wanting to make sure he didn't kill himself. Of course, to Lestrade, John, and Mrs. Hudson, that had already occurred. Lestrade. Oh. He would have to face him sometime. That was going to be fun. Wait. The response. Sherlock wanted a response.

"Sherlock, you are most definitely not alone. I can guarantee that."

"Hm?"

"You have everything you need, everything you want. What could possibly make you alone?"

"I don't feel things to your capacity. I get rid of sentiment. It wastes space and time. How could someone possibly put up with me?"

"You learn to see around it and appreciate the emotion they do have."

"Too easy."

"Not everything is that complicated, Sherlock, not even love."

Maybe he let on too much in that statement, but they were both half asleep, neither of them would remember in the morning. Sherlock might, but he wouldn't dwell on it. Something as insignificant as a passing remark? No, he wouldn't even think to remember it.

He heard Sherlock huff, a sigh of defeat in the conversation, and fall asleep. John's last thought before he rested was that Sherlock let him have the last word, something he never did. He always had the last word. The only one he didn't was Irene Adler, and that made her...what? Was John special as well? He didn't think about it like that, but maybe he was. Maybe he was something to Sherlock Holmes, greatest Consulting Detective. Man of little emotion, showing John he was special in his own way. And with that, the pair slept peacefully until morning.


	14. Chapter 14

When I'm Gone

Chapter 14

John woke up at seven, as he usually did. He felt a warmth in his hands, looked down, and found Sherlock's encased in his. He smiled. He had almost forgot they had slept together the previous night.

'Well, not like that. That would be...' he stopped, not wishing to continue or label the experience.

He looked to the figure next to him, still asleep peacefully. He almost looked happy, at rest. He looked ages younger than he did awake, and he could have sworn a smile graced Sherlock's perfect lips. It was raining outside, but the weather described the opposite of how John was feeling.

John sat for a few minutes, thinking about their final conversation last night, how Sherlock let him have the last word. He thought maybe Sherlock did care about him, that this was his way of telling John that he was special.

'Maybe he does feel something for me.' John mused.

He didn't ponder about it for long before he slipped his hands from Sherlock's and reached for his phone. He decided to text Lestrade that he was coming in today, but he didn't want to give away anything about a specific detective that he would be accompanying.

_Lestrade, I'm coming in today. I hope there's a good case._

_ -JW_

He sent the text and waited for a reply. John had hoped Lestrade would be at the Yard by now, usually he was there by around six thirty. About fifteen minutes passed and he received a response.

_Mycroft is here. He wants to speak to you. When you get here, call me._

_ -GL_

John replied with a quick 'OK' and sat for the next ten minutes. He decided to get up and take a shower, and maybe come back down from the elation he was feeling now. He sat in bed, but was trying to figure out how to get up without waking Sherlock up. He tried to smoothly roll out of bed, surprisingly succeeding in the attempt, and went upstairs to his bathroom. He got in and lathered the soap up on his body, rinsed fairly quickly, not stopping to think, and got out to dry off. As he got dressed, he started thinking about possible circumstances that could happen at the Yard. Things could go very well or very badly. What did Mycroft want to say to John? He must have known Sherlock would talk to John at some point, so it wasn't going to be about Sherlock, at least he hoped. But what would happen if Sherlock did get the case and Lestrade let him back on? Would he forget about John? He hoped not. John decided to push that thought away and head downstairs to make coffee. Coffee for two. The first time in a long while. John smiled to himself.

'Everything might go back to normal.' he thought.

* * *

Sherlock woke up at around seven thirty, alone. He heard the water running upstairs and figured that John was taking a shower. However, he was a bit confused, not to mention hurt. He had spilled his dream, some of his core feelings to John and he wouldn't even wait for him to get up before he went to shower. Did he not want to be near Sherlock? Or was he feeling guilt, maybe even disgust? He didn't want John to leave him. He felt a bit rejected and immediately did not like the feeling.

"John?" he heard someone in the kitchen a few minutes after and knew it had to be John.

What if he was going to ignore Sherlock? What if he didn't want to confront him? Sherlock felt doubt for the second time in his life, the only other during the case at Baskersville. Sherlock got up, not wanting to succumb to or acknowledge his doubt or rejection, and went to his bathroom. He stood in the shower, going over what happened last night and thought of all his...mistakes.

'A new word to add to your vocabulary.' said the voice in his head.

He ignored it and kept thinking. Maybe he let on too much about himself or his uncertainty of emotions.

'And add that once too, Sherlock.'

'Shut up.'

'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Is that the only reply? No wonder you and John are perfect for each other. You're both_ boring_.'

He was learning a lot more of the human psyche from himself than his studies. He thought of himself as a god before the Fall, but now he considered himself human, yet another feat of Sherlock Holmes. Though he could definitely argue that he, nor John, was ordinary.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and got dressed. He figured dull was good, as he didn't want Lestrade thinking he was trying to make a spectacle of himself. He knew Lestrade would handle that part on his own. Sherlock smirked to himself at the thought of Lestrade making a fool out of himself, oh how he missed that.

He heard John's phone buzz on the bed and there being no password, he hoped, he checked it for him. He was right, of course, and checked the texts. It was from Lestrade, saying he got a murder case, if he wanted to blog about it. Sherlock answered for him, knowing how John well enough to answer.

_I'd love to, thanks._

_ -JW_

'Simple enough.' Sherlock thought.

He made his way into the kitchen, seeing John at the table on his laptop, drinking coffee. Black coffee. Since when did John drink plain black?

"Good morning." said John, not even looking up.

"Good...morning..." Sherlock replied, confused even more at his behavior. He felt hurt that he wasn't even worth looking at to John.

"I got you your mug, I made coffee." He was very blunt and to the point. It reminded him of Mycroft, something that hurt him even more, stabbing him like a knife in the gut.

"Thank...you." he said lowly. John wouldn't make the effort to talk or look at him, but made him coffee, and remembered his mug? It was almost like a one night stand, or rather, what he heard about one night stands. He didn't know first hand, which didn't bother him.

Looking at John, he saw embarrassment cross his face. He figured as much, letting the hindsight bias settle in.

"So are we going to the Yard today?"

"A case?" Sherlock looked over excitedly, locking eyes with John.

"Finally." he sighed to himself as he looked away, letting the tension disperse. He came over to John and sat across from him at the table.

"Yes, Sherlock. Once you deal with Lestrade...and Mycroft." he coughed the last part out, not wanting to really say it aloud.

"Mycroft...why would he be there...?"

"Said he had something to talk to me about. I don't know, probably nothing important."

He thought for a minute. He must have known the two were back together, he was the one to set Sherlock up again. Mycroft though, cruel as he was, wouldn't dare betray Sherlock's true feelings, would he? Sherlock wasn't even _sure_ of his feelings.

'You seemed sure last night.' said the voice, once again sounding more and more like Moriarty.

Sherlock got up at the thought, washed his cup, walked over to the door and got his coat and scarf. He looked at John, who in turn got up, went to the room to get his phone, and followed Sherlock out the door.

The pair hailed a cab and drove to the yard, with John paying the cabbie and getting out after Sherlock. John was extremely nervous as they stood in front of the Yard. He really didn't want to deal with Mycroft, mostly out of wanting to punch him. He didn't want to do that in front of Lestrade. Sherlock, however; was fine. He was ready to face Lestrade and Mycroft if it meant he got a case.

Sherlock walked in, John tailing him from behind, and got stares and wide eyes from everyone. Either they were speechless at his return, or they thought he was an insane fanatic imposter.

He slid into Lestrade's office and sat down, feet on the desk. John stood over by the window, looking out onto the street, and Sherlock finally noticing that John didn't join him, got up and went over to accompany John, making his first move. He stood next to John, back straight and a smile on his face. He was so ready for his case. John was scared, mostly for Sherlock's sake. He knew Lestrade would be angry at Sherlock and maybe wouldn't even give him a case, which he knew would break Sherlock's heart.

"John, what's wrong? I can tell you're upset, don't lie to me. What did I do wrong?"

John looked at him, confusion spread across his face.

"What? Sherlock, you didn't do anything. I just...I'm scared to talk to Lestrade. And Mycroft. I really don't want to end up punching him in the face. He _is_ the British government, I could possibly be arrested." he chuckled.

"Mycroft won't do anything to you, _I won't let him_." Sherlock promised.

The two were both sending mixed signals to each other. Sherlock knew it, but didn't know how to fix it. John wanted to clear it up, but didn't want to give himself away. He decided to make the first move on his part, and after a moment of awkward silence, turned to Sherlock and gave him a quick hug of appreciation.

'That was unexpected.' Sherlock thought in surprise. He didn't really know how to react, so he awkwardly patted John's back. John knew he was trying and gave a half-hearted laugh as he turned from the window and sat down near the desk, both hearing the door turn and seeing Lestrade walk in, his face changing from bored to livid in a matter of seconds.

"Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead. What the hell is this." Lestrade stated with grief and fury.


	15. Chapter 15

When I'm Gone

Chapter 15

"Lestrade, I know how this looks, but at least let me explain. No, don't yell at me. Sit down." Sherlock said this with a commanding tone in his voice, Lestrade obeying immediately, as he wasn't sure what else to do besides actually kill him.

"What the hell? How are you alive? YOU JUMPED FROM A ROOFTOP SHERLOCK."

"I know that. Excellent deduction."

"Don't play games with me, Sherlock. Tell me the bloody truth."

"I would if you didn't keep interrupting. My my, bit of a temper we have today, yes?"

Lestrade held on to the arms of his chair, knuckles turning white. John was standing next to Sherlock, lips in a line, forehead creased.

"Lestrade. I did it to protect you. I jumped, but I had help." He went on to explain what happened, telling the same thing as he told John, with maybe a little less emotion. He saw Lestrade relax, hands still on the chair, but in a less threatening stance.

"Now, you mean to tell me, that you survived, but couldn't come back for three years? Sherlock, you almost killed us all, especially John." He looked over, pointing to John with his head, whose face turned red and looked down, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Sherlock didn't bother looking over at John, too focused on what to say to Lestrade in order to get a case, and who saw the head turn he gave as he nodded over at John, still not trusting himself to not kill Sherlock if he took his hands off the table.

There was silence in the room, John looking around assessing how bad the situation was, Sherlock in a confident stance, figuring out what kind of case with what kind of murder, how simple it would be, and Lestrade making up his mind on whether or not to strangle Sherlock and throw him off a rooftop for real.

Lestrade, noticing John's unfocused stance, looked over at him.

"Mycroft came in earlier, he wrote you this note, said it explained everything. He won't need to talk to you, not yet he said."

"Ah, okay. Thanks." John nodded his head.

He handed John the note and got up, feeling in control of the situation, and got out the papers on the case. As the two were discussing the case, John read the note to himself, ready to kill Mycroft, but thank him at the same time. The note explained he had known about the notebook, and that he had ripped the page out containing the note, to see if John could figure it out. He didn't think Sherlock forgot the date, but he apologised for his brother's inconvenience, and was very certain it wouldn't happen again, as Moriarty and his group was gone for sure.

John looked at the note a final time, ripped it up, and threw it away. Lestrade glanced at him, figured it was nothing, and got back to the case. Sherlock, however; didn't even notice John, as he was too absorbed in his case. John felt a bit useless to the both of them, and sat down in the chair on the side of the office, thinking about the note and about the morning, making the first move only because Sherlock was unable to start anything, always waiting for someone else to start it. Typical Sherlock, of course, never having to work for anything, perfect in every single way. And of course he knew it, he flaunted it every single day. But until now, it was becoming more toned down,or so John thought. Maybe he was just used to it, or maybe he was so happy to see Sherlock was back that he just didn't acknowledge it.

The three traveled to the murder scene, and Sherlock laughed. He looked at Lestrade and John, puzzled looks crossing their faces, and deduced the case in one go, saying even an idiot could do that. Cue insult to Anderson, and they all left, declaring the case closed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, back in business. John Watson, blogger, and...not even there anymore. Sherlock looked at him all of about twice, once for a medical analysis and once to insult him and Lestrade. He was hurt, there was no way around his feelings. He knew this would happen, Sherlock would get a case and shut down, forgetting even the tiniest ounce of human respect.

They traveled back home, Sherlock leading the way and John following sluggishly behind, entered the flat, and sat down. It was about five o'clock when they got in, neither of them feeling up to making supper at that time. John decided after about an hour that if Sherlock wasn't going to talk to him, he would go up to his room and blog about the case, and attempt to get Sherlock more cases. He was starting to stew in his anger again.

"John, wait," Sherlock suddenly spoke to him as he got up to leave, surprising John, "What did Mycroft's note say?"

Sherlock was unsure of how to start conversation, that was the best he could come up with at the moment, even though he knew it was stupid. It caused John to turn to him though, and Sherlock considered it a victory.

"He just wanted to apologise for the inconvenience of your death, and that it would never happen again. He knew about the notebook, was all." John was point-blank again, upsetting Sherlock. He knew John was mad at him, and he wanted to apologise, but he honestly didn't know where to begin. He had only apologised once, to Molly Hooper, the only sincere apology he ever made. He got up and started to cross the room, but John turned and walked up the stair and shut the door to his room.

Sherlock sat back down with a thud. He was remorseful about getting the case, and didn't want John to be upset at him. The only reason he wasn't focused on John was to get the case over and done with. He found it too simple for his liking, and though it placated him for the time being, it was nothing out of the ordinary, just a simple murder with a few mistakes. He was trying to impress John, didn't he see that?

He was alone for the rest of the night, John upstairs typing on his blog, and Sherlock downstairs thinking and thinking. At around ten he decided to go to bed, alone this time, as he had not planned. He slipped into bed and waited for sleep to fall upon him, but decided as that wasn't happening, to read. He read a few books, all unable to stop his thoughts from filling his head, and just decided to succumb to them and started thinking again. At this time, it was about midnight. Sherlock's head was about to hit the pillow until he heard John yelling, and he rushed upstairs to find him on the bed, scared and highly alert.

* * *

John woke up from his nightmare, not even sure why he was thinking about it. He woke up yelling and panting, just coming out of a dream in which Sherlock died, but in reality this time. He was never coming back and John had to face the wrath of Moriarty, who had tortured him mentally and physically. He never imagined how Sherlock felt about Moriarty, loathing his games and trying to outdo him. Now John understood why Sherlock had gone to such lengths to protect him, while in the dream Moriarty had faked death to torture John.

He heard Sherlock coming into his room and sitting on the bed, taking John's hand in his and trying to calm him down. In times of need, Sherlock knew what to do from observation, and John actually liked that instinct within him. He started sobbing into Sherlock's chest, and that was the limit of Sherlock's comfort ability, he froze up, not knowing what to do. John came up from his chest and looked at Sherlock, sensing his discomfort, and mumbled a half-formed apology.

Sherlock looked down at John, compassion lighting up his eyes, and got into bed with John, as he did with Sherlock the night before.

"It seems we're both having trouble sleeping," Sherlock tried to lighten the mood, "We should sleep together more often, more of a peaceful rest." he laughed and looked around. John's room was always so unorganized, not even a sock index to help straighten up a little bit. It was kind of homey, he supposed, unlike his room, which was less comforting, more of an office than a bedroom.

John moved over so Sherlock could lay next to him and as Sherlock prompted him about the dream, he started rubbing John's hand. John told him about the dream, relaxing immediately as he saw Sherlock's compassionate side-show through, something uniquely human. Maybe Sherlock had gone through a complete transformation on the run, being able to do this with John and help him, even if he didn't know too much to an extent. He was trying, and that calmed John enough to last the night.

"I'm afraid of losing you, Sherlock." John finally admitted. Did he really say that? He must have, because Sherlock responded with two looks, a smile and a frown. The smile graced his face for just a second before the frown took over, letting what John had said sink in.

Sherlock heard the words come out of John's mouth and smiled in glee, wanting to hear those words for some time now. He replaced it with a frown, trying to be sensible, John might think he was laughing at him, and looked down at John.

"Why? I'm not going anywhere. No need to lose me, there's no where I could go."

"Sherlock, I thought I lost you to Moriarty, and then I got you back. But then, I almost lost you to a case."

"John-"

"No, Sherlock. I saw the look on your face. You were happy to be back with your work, your 'marriage' up and running again. I almost lost you again. _You're so changeable_."

The last three words brought the both of them to silence, the only sound was their breathing. Those three words were one of the things Moriarty had said as he threatened to kill both of them. Sherlock looked down at their hands, thinking about what John had said. He decided to be bold-well, bold for him-and lace their fingers together, clutching John's hand tightly.

"You won't lose me." he said with sincerity, looking into John's eyes.

John felt Sherlock intertwine their hands together, surprised he would do such a thing, but figured it was just for comfort. He never thought Sherlock could be doing it out of love or attraction. That just wasn't him.

The two once again fell asleep together peacefully, lingering on the final touches and grasps of their hands, and were able to rest without anything happen to them, as they both knew Moriarty was gone. In their minds, it was a different story; Moriarty still thrived there, as Sherlock knew but was not ready to admit, wanting to focus on affection a bit more before dealing with Moriarty, his doubt, and an emotional attachment to John Watson, blogger of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
